Page 8 of Tito

“He’s got a date with her Saturday night,” Hap interjected. “I might be more excited about it than he is.”

“Interesting,” Braxton said, looking me over while he sipped his beer. “You’ve been spending your Sundays here for damned near as long as the Old Man’s been living here. Never seen a woman at your house. In fact, you’ve never mentioned going on a date.”

“I rarely go on dates,” I said. “Just busy doing other things, I guess.”

“Just busy, huh?” He chuckled. “Busy? You waste six or eight hours every Sunday, right here.”

In some respects, I had two completely different lives. My life as a criminal with the motorcycle club, and my life at home. Short of someone from the club stopping by my home unannounced, I didn’t mix the two. Having that level of separation in my life was necessary. It allowed me to look at the activities in the MC as a job, not my way of life.

“Spending time here lets me unwind from a week of bullshit with the motorcycle club. It’s relaxing. I don’t have to think. When I’m here, I just exist. I enjoy it.”

He looked me over slowly, as if dissecting my response and searching through the pieces for fault. He pressed the web of his hand against his chin and rubbed his beard with his thumb and forefinger. “What makes this girl special enough to break your busy routine?”

“Her appearance, sense of humor, and the way it made her nervous when I looked at her.” I took a drink of my beer. “I liked those things about her.”

He watched the man across the street, who was pacing the yard while talking on his cell phone. “Describe her.”

“Brunette. Athletic build. Blue eyes. Thirty-ish. Just out of a relationship,” I replied.

“Just out, huh?” Still studying the man across the street, he set his beer aside and stood. “This year? This month? This week?”

“Sounds like it happened this morning,” I said, wondering what he found so interesting about the neighbor. “They broke up a few hours before we met.”

He laughed.

“What?” I asked.

“She’s using you to get back at him.” He glanced at me. “And you’re using her to find your hat.”

I suspected he was right on one account. On the other, he wasn’t completely right, but he wasn’t wrong, either.

I pretended to be surprised. “Why do you say that?”

When the neighbor walked inside, Braxton sat down and faced me. “You think giving her some dick will act as an incentive for her to find your hat. She’s a few hours out of a relationship. She isn’t going on a date because she thinks you fit the mold of her perfect man. She’s planning on using sex as a means of obtaining justice for whatever her ex did to end the relationship. You just happened to be the guy she picked. What were you wearing when you went into her shop?”

“Wearing?” It seemed like an odd question. “What I’ve got on right now.”

“She pegged you for a biker,” he said. “Her ex is probably a pencil-pusher. She’s scratching an itch, no doubt.”

“An itch?”

“The bad boy itch,” he responded. “Every woman has one. Some act on it, some don’t.”

“I asked her out, she didn’t ask me,” I retorted, taking exception to his remark. “She’s not scratching an itch.”

“She said yes because you’re the antithesis of her day-to-day routine.” He nonchalantly sipped his beer. “It’s not a stab at you. It’s just how things are.”

He acted like it was a common occurrence. He may have been the avowed psychologist of the group, but I wasn’t convinced. “You know this how?”

“I see it all the time.”

“In your line of work?” I asked, my tone clearly sarcastic.

“She’s planning on using you for sex, and that’s it. You don’t have to believe me,” he said, wearing a smirk. “But if I’m right, I want an 18-year-old bottle of Macallan to accompany you on your next visit.”

“And, if you’re wrong?” I asked.

He nodded toward the end of the driveway. “I’ll give you the keys to that Range Rover.”